


testament to youth in verse

by stoprobbers



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Idiots in Love, Post-Season/Series 02, Post-Season/Series 03, Pre-Season/Series 03, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:01:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25537009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stoprobbers/pseuds/stoprobbers
Summary: Morning comes. At the Byers house, at the Wheeler house. Scenes from waking.
Relationships: Jonathan Byers/Nancy Wheeler
Comments: 6
Kudos: 41





	testament to youth in verse

Morning comes at the Byers house, the gray-pink light of dawn shining through the pale sheet Jonathan tries to pass off as a curtain. Dimly, beyond the cracked doorway, Nancy can hear the rustling of adults rising for the day, the loud breathing of exhausted children. She stays on her side, back to all of them, eyes on the sleeping boy in front of her.

His face looks so much more relaxed in sleep, the bags under his eyes less pronounced, the seemingly ever-present worried crease between his eyebrows erased. From this angle his high cheekbones and the swoop of his nose are practically cherubic. She wants to reach out and run her fingertips over his skin, but she doesn't want to disturb him.

It is the second time in as many days she has seen him sleep, and the second time in as many days that she's marveled at how young he looks.

A wave of feeling washes over her, catches her between her ribs, protectiveness and something more besides. It's strong enough to move her, strong enough to scare her, strong enough that she quickly shoves it aside to examine later.

Perhaps she makes a sound, or sucks in a breath, or moves from the force of it before she can tamp it down because Jonathan takes a deep breath through his nose, furrows his eyebrows and blinks himself awake. Confusion swirls briefly behind his eyes before he remembers where he is, what has happened. So much as happened.

"Mor--" His voice is little more than a croak and so he stops, grimaces, clears his throat, tries again. "Morning."

"Morning," she whispers back. The idea comes into her head, quick as a sneeze and just as powerful, and without questioning it she leans in and presses her lips to his. They have survived. They are alive. They are together.

Perhaps he's thinking the same thing because his lips curl into a grin and she feels it, feels the tip of his tongue - cool, not warm, and she wonders momentarily at that - swipe her lower lip once before his hand comes up to her cheek and he deepens their kiss. Only for a moment, and then he pulls away.

His grin is still there and she feels her lips stretch to mirror it. For a long moment they simply look at each other, tired eyes and messy hair and flushed cheeks, proof of just how alive they are.

"Can I tell you something?" he speaks quietly, barely above a whisper, as if he's afraid to alert the rest of the house that they've woken. Maybe he is. "It's stupid but--"

"Of course." She doesn't let him finish the insult.

"I--" He pauses again, seems to screw up his courage. "I like waking up next to you."

That feeling comes surging back, warm and wonderful, and she smiles wider, scoots a little closer.

"I like waking up next to you too." She whispers it, a secret just for them, across his lips.

His chin moves, just barely, and his hand slides to her waist to pull her closer.

"I think we should do it more often," he adds, and swallows her words before she can reply.

+++

Morning comes at the Wheeler house. Nancy watches the sky turn from blue to gray to golden as the sun rises above the trees. Behind her a body moves, an arm snakes around her waist.

“You wake up too goddamn early,” Jonathan grumbles into the back of her shoulder, followed by the press of his lips and then his forehead. “Go back to sleep, weirdo.”

“Do you ever think about just… getting out of here?”

His laugh is a puff of hot air over her skin. “All the time. You know that.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“New York. You know that, too.” She feels the flutter of his eyelashes just before his chest presses against her back and his knee slides between hers as he pulls himself flush against her. “We’ve talked about this before. What’s going on?”

She ignores his question. “I think I’d just go far. Just pick a direction and drive and drive and drive until Indiana isn’t even a place anymore, just a concept. Somewhere everyone’s heard of but no one has actually seen.”

“Nance—”

She turns, so fast she almost knocks their faces together, so fast he jerks back in surprise. It’s only the clamp of her knees around his that keeps him in place. “You’d come with me, right? We’d go together.”

“Yeah,” he answers, brow knitting. “Just another year before we can get out of here… Nance, are you OK? Did you have a bad dream?”

She dreamed she wore a housedress and an apron that wouldn’t come off, sewn to her skin, that every door and drawer she opened revealed only mops and brooms and feather dusters and vacuums, and the TV barked only stern male voices. She dreamed when she fled the house in the middle of the night the road out of town formed a perfect circle so every time she made it out of town she was brought right back in again.

The weight of the future presses on her in ways she is unfamiliar with, has not built the language to fight off. She searches for those words, for a dictionary to help her define them and use them, weaponize them, but her options are limited. Barb is gone, Jonathan can’t feel it, and her mother either can’t feel it either or has learned to like it. She can’t tell.

“No,” she says, brushing her lips against his, parted and wet, reassurance and distraction at the same time. “Not how you mean, at least.”

He looks like he wants to say something else, or maybe kiss her deeper, but her door suddenly opens and Mike’s head pops through.

“Dad’s awake,” he whispers loudly before disappearing as quickly as he came, and they bolt apart.

The scramble for t-shirts and nightgowns is quick and practiced, but a scramble nonetheless. Still, when the door opens again, they are curled together under the covers, fully clothed and feigning sleep.

“Nancy,” her father intones from the doorway and she lets her eyes flutter open, sucks in a breath to convey surprise. When she looks up, blinking in what she hopes in sleepy confusion, her father does not look impressed or amused. “I think it’s time for Jonathan to go home.”

She can feel him stirring beside her, sitting up, making sure the shirt he’s wearing is apparent. _Look, Mr. Wheeler, I respect the rules of your home_ , is the message they’re trying to convey, however much a lie it may be. By her father’s face, it’s not working. He looks as displeased as ever.

it’s actually kind of funny.

“OK,” is all she says because that’s all there is to say, and also if she says anything else, she is maybe going to burst into laughter and then she is definitely going to be grounded for at least a week, perhaps longer.

“Yes, sir,” Jonathan echoes from behind her, and now she really does have to bite her lip to keep it at bay. She wonders if her dad notices the sheets move when Jonathan kicks her.

His frown deepens and she knows he did.

“Breakfast will be ready soon,” is all her father says before he leaves the doorway. In the hallway she hears him sigh to her mother. _It’s not appropriate, Karen_ , he says, and _She’s not a child, Ted, you have to let her have a little independence_ her mother replies, and next to her Jonathan is kicking off the covers and rising, too fast for her to pull him back to her side.

She lets the giggle escape.

“This is why I said we should sleep at my house,” he grumbles, pulling his jeans back on, belt buckle jingling with his movements. “At least my mom lets us sleep in.”

He’s not wrong. “Your window’s also a lot closer to the ground.”

“Yes, it is.” When his face pops out of his sweater it’s wearing a triumphant grin. It sours quickly. “God, now I have to leave through the front door. I hate that. Your dad watches me the _whole time_.”

She groans. “I know. I’m sorry. I really am.”

“Guess it’s a good thing I love you,” he sighs, bracing himself on the mattress so he can lean over to kiss her. It’s deep, what she thinks he was about to do before her father’s early rising habits so rudely interrupted them. Though, she should probably thank Mike for the heads up later.

“Mmmhmm,” she agrees into his mouth, threading her fingers into his hair. “Don’t go.”

“I’m on the clock now and you know it.” Still, he takes his time separating from her, and she doesn’t miss the glint in his eye when she licks her lips after. “Still coming over tonight?”

She nods, watches him shoulder his bag and amble out the door. She hears him say goodbye to her parents before the front door opens and closes, forever polite and considerate even though she knows his ears are turning red with embarrassment and he’s stewing internally. About waking up early, about getting caught by her father, about the arousal she’s sure is surging through his veins because it’s surging through hers.

She lays back on the bed, touching fingertips to tingling lips, and wonders what it would be like to wake up next to him in the morning without any parents to think of at all, disapproving or not. Thinks about taking her time, nuzzling into his neck, stretching under the covers, maybe even fooling around before putting on one of his shirts to make breakfast, drink coffee, read the newspaper.

She thinks again about getting in a car with him and driving far, far away, away from monsters and high school and expectations to a place they can call their own, build a life they want. She stays in the daydream until her mother calls her down for pancakes.

+++

Morning comes at the Byers house, trilling bird chirps rousing her from light, fitful sleep. When she reaches beside her the sheets are cold, and she gasps a breath in through her nose before she shoots up into sitting position.

_He’s gone, where did he go_ , her brain screams as her eyes struggle to focus in the unexpectedly bright sunlight.

It takes a moment for her to find him, perched in the corner chair usually reserved for dirty laundry and piles of school supplies. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen him sit in that chair before.

“Sorry,” he says, looking at her and past her somehow at the same time. The bird trills again, even louder this time. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t, that bird did,” she rubs a hand through her hair. “What time is it?”

“Seven thirty.”

“It’s a _weekend_ ,” it comes out whining, even though she doesn’t mean it to.

“Sorry,” he repeats, but he doesn’t sound it. He doesn’t sound anything at all.

She sighs and hold her hand out to him, beckoning back into the bed. He doesn’t move. The standoff lasts until her arm feels tired, and she kicks the sheets off and walks over to him instead, sliding onto his lap. His fingers dig into the flesh of her hip and her thigh as he slides his arms around her.

“I wish—” his voice cracks, and she leans her forehead against his temple as she waits for him to continue. “I wish we could just be normal.”

She can’t hold back her chuckle. “You once yelled at me in in the woods about being normal.”

“I didn’t yell at you.”

“You definitely did.”

“I didn’t raise my voice.”

“You didn’t have to,” she presses a kiss to his cheek. “And that’s not the point. What changed your mind?”

“It’s not that. I still don’t want to live at the end of a cul-de-sac. I just… want to finish high school and have my girlfriend and go to college and live my life without it being a crisis all the time.”

“Is that what this is?”

“Doesn’t it feel like it?” he lifts one hand, gestures to his room. Piles of photographs and books and records are gone, replaced with boxes on boxes. She considers them, and how he’s taught her to admit when she’s wrong.

“Yeah, it does.”

“If it’s not the assholes at school, it’s my brother going missing. And then it’s monsters and parallel universes. And then monsters from parallel universes _inside_ my brother, and turning our neighbors into _more_ monsters. And then, when all of that is finally done, when we’re finally free of this insane shit… _this_. We’re leaving no matter how much we lose, no matter what that takes away.”

She feels the hitch in his chest more than she hears it, leans harder into him.

“It’s not fair,” she agrees. “But it’s only for a little while. We’re almost done with school, we’re almost 18. And then we’ll be together again.”

“But what if—”

“Don’t say it.”

“Don’t you think about it? I think about it all the time.”

“Of course I think about it. But I try not to. Because it’s not going to happen.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Sure I do,” she pulls back to look at him. “This isn’t monsters and parallel universes. This is us. I know us.”

His eyes search her face for a long moment, dark and deep and unreadable, before a smile softens his expression. “When did you become such an optimist?”

“When did you become such a doubter?”

He shrugs, smirks. “Trust issues.”

As awkward as it was at the time, the thought of that night in bumbleyfuck Illinois makes her feel warm now. How far they’ve come.

She climbs off his lap and offers her hand again, and this time he takes it, lets her pull him to his feet.

“It is too fucking early,” she tells him, “let’s go back to sleep.”

“I don’t know if I can sleep,” he admits, taking a step towards her. She moves back in kind, a slow dance until they’re both back at the mattress. She sits, scoots back and he follows again, crawling over her. The feeling of him hovering, boxing her in, feels decidedly like relief.

There’s a retort on the tip of her tongue, a cheeky tease about tiring him out, but he kisses her before she can say it and talking becomes entirely an afterthought.

He does fall asleep; with his head on her chest, ear over her heart and her hand stroking through his hair. She watches his face as long as she can, still so much younger in repose but once again with that crease in his brow, a worry even she can’t ease out of him, until his warmth and steady breaths are too much to resist and she drifts off again as well.

+++

Morning comes in the Wheeler house, a sharp and blaring alarm cutting through the kind of dead sleep you can only achieve through complete emotional and physical exhaustion. Nancy slams her hand on top of her clock until it stops or breaks, she doesn’t care which, and buries her head under a pillow.

Her face hurts, her chest hurts, and especially her head hurts. There is no arm to slide over her waist, no feet to tangle hers with. This is how she wakes up now; exhausted and pained and alone.

It’s not unlike the early days after Barb disappeared, after Will was found, after they all went home shaken and scared and trying to comprehend things well beyond comprehension. Not unlike the nights she’d listen to the phone’s dial tone and imagine Barb’s voice on the other end and cry herself to sleep. Not unlike the mornings she’d wake up from dreams of Barb screaming her name, clawing the side of Steve’s pool, begging her for help, all while she stood by and tried to scream back but couldn’t make a sound, tried to help but couldn’t move her feet.

She’d wake up feeling empty, like someone had scraped out her insides during the night and left the husk of her in the real world.

She’s a husk again, now.

She’s on the verge of drifting back off into sleep, hopefully something dreamless, when the phone bleats. Her arm shoots out to answer it before the second ring.

“Hello?”

“Hey.”

Just the sound of his voice is enough to warm the room and raise a sob in her chest. She tries to hold it back as she speaks. “Hi.”

“Oh, Nancy, don’t cry—”

“I’m not, I’m not,” she rushes to assure him but a tear rolls down her cheek anyway. And if he didn’t know she was lying before, the great sniffle she lets out surely gives her away. “Good morning.”

“Something like that.” She hears the rustling of sheets as he shifts in his bed. The phone in his room is new, a peace offering in the aftermath. The Byers still have only one line but this way, at least, he gets some privacy. And mornings are easier; with Mrs. Byers at work and Will and El sleepy teenagers, they’re left alone.

They’d tried evenings that first week, but the fourth time Will picked up the line during a personal, intimate confession they’d sworn off any time between five and nine forever.

“How many days until Thanksgiving again?”

“Forty-two,” he answers immediately. Her heart clenches. It hasn’t even been two weeks.

“How are there still so many days? It feels like it’s been years.”

“I know. Did time used to move this slowly?”

“No,” she’s certain of it. “It definitely did not.”

“Did you finish studying for your test?”  
  
“Also no,” she sighs. “I couldn’t focus.”

“Nancy Wheeler, might you get a B on a test?”

“I just might,” she admits, thinks about it and sighs. “Or a C, honestly.”

“We can’t have that,” he admonishes, and she hears rustling again. Wonders what it is he’s reaching for. “Your head would explode and then Thanksgiving wouldn't even matter. Plus, our grades are important. We’ve gotta make sure we get into all our schools.”

The mention of college applications makes her heart and stomach squeeze. They’ve decided on eight options together. She hopes that’s enough.

“And if we don’t?”  
  
“Then our last report cards have to be impressive enough to get us jobs,” he answers easily, and she’s shocked by how light his voice is. Sometimes she feels like they’ve switched personalities since he’s been gone. “Rent isn’t free. What page is the practice quiz on?”

“I don’t know,” she blinks, finally taking her head out from under the pillow and propping herself up in bed. “It’s chapter five.”

“Chapter five,” he repeats and she hears pages flipping. Wonders if they really do use the same textbooks at his new school or if he’s just guessing. Though, he started physics with her at the beginning of the year in Hawkins. She supposes he’d know. “OK. When light bends as it enters a different medium, the process is called what?”

His voice is straightforward, matter of fact, and her heart swells so strongly and suddenly she almost bursts into tears. 

“I love you,” she blurts out instead.

“Noooo,” he drawls through a laugh. “It’s called refraction. But I love you, too.”

She closes her eyes, a pillow to her chest and his voice in her ear, and pretends he is next to her. He will be again, soon.

**Author's Note:**

> I think I wrote the first scene of this story... a year ago? Which just goes to show why you should never trash a WIP. 
> 
> I don't know why the word tap has been stuck of the last three months but it turned back on today something mighty. I'm glad to be back to writing these two. I still love them almost as much as they love each other. 
> 
> Title taken from the [song of the same name](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0G2lR7gaNP4) by The New Pornographers.


End file.
